Jeane
by FlightlessTree
Summary: A student of art and music has spent most of her life on peaceful Knothole Island, far away from the dangers and politics of the mainland. But Albion's economy is failing, the new Hero King is a bitter disappointment, and there is talk among the people of a second revolution.


"_When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they view things unrespected, But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, And darkly bright are bright in dark directed_." These were the words that could be heard one early summer morning in Jeane's secret garden.

The garden was hidden behind the boarding house and a short walk down an old neglected path that wound through the forest like a snaking river. Tall but crumbling rock walls formed a circular perimeter, and within it feral rose and blackberry bushes ran wild beneath a great wide-reaching mulberry tree. Sitting at the tiny clearing near the center of this garden, where the thorny bushes could not reach, sat the young Jeane with a book of poetry which she read from. The skirt of her blue and gold dress billowed out in a perfect halo around her seated form, and her long auburn hair hung in a heavy braid down to the small of her back. Honey bees zoomed busily around her, all eager to find food to bring to their nearby hive, but Jeane paid them no mind.

"_Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, How would thy shadow's form form happy show, To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so?_" Jeane read in her naturally melodic voice. She spent most of her mornings here, sometimes to read poetry as she did on this particular day, and sometimes to practice singing, luting, or writing. She loved the feel of the place; wild in its growth, but full of hints to a presumably aristocratic history. Even though most of the garden was covered in thick prickly foliage, she could still see parts of marble statues poking out above the leaves in many spots. She guessed that it was originally meant to be an art exhibit as much as it was a garden.

"_How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made, By looking on thee in the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade, Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay?_" Continued Jeane. She lived in the boarding house with several other girls and the old maid who ran things. It was a good place for young highborn ladies to live safely and wholesomely until they were ready to marry. And for this reason, for most of the women there it merely served as a transitional home. Few ever stayed longer than a year or two, but not Jeane. She had been planted there by her guardian at the young age of ten, and remained there even seven years after. Though she was no longer the youngest girl living there, she was certainly still the most permanent.

"_All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me._" Jeane finished the sonnet with a satisfied smile, and gently closed the book.

"How sweet, is that poem for me?" Said a masculine voice, startling Jeane into a nervous stance. But her fear disappeared when she saw who the man standing at the garden's entrance was. He was handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes. A permanent smirk rested above his square jaw and below his pointed nose. He was dressed in the most up-to-date fashion of Albion's elite—tall black leather boots over dark tight-fitting trousers, a loose cotton shirt beneath a midnight purple vest. His abnormally tall frame leaned ever so slightly on his cane, which he carried as an accessory rather than an aid.

"Reaver!" Jeane exclaimed with a laugh and skipped over to greet him. For a moment she reached out for a hug, but thought better of it and let her arms hang to her sides. Instead she offered him her biggest smile. "How did you find me?"

"I'm afraid you are not as secretive as you imagine, little _piaf_." He absently brushed some invisible dirt off of his expensive clothes as he spoke. "I've known about your hiding spot for many years. Don't worry, love, I never told a soul. A bright young girl like you needs a quiet place to grow, free from intruders. That is why I never intruded."

"Until now." She grinned. Jeane had a peculiar relationship with the industrialist before her. She was born with to a prostitute mother and no father nineteen years ago, and lived her early childhood in extreme poverty in the city of Bloodstone. It was a terrible town for a child, filled with disease and crime and filth. She only had one hazy memory of that place, and that was of the day Reaver showed up and took her away. His large gloved hands had plucked her from the ground, and he carried her at arm's length all the way to the carriage. He did not want her filth to soil his clothes. To this day he never liked to touch her, as if he still saw her as unwashed and messy toddler she had once been. Reaver had put her into a boarding school for a few years, but she was a troubled girl and never behaved. They never kicked her out because they feared her guardian, but at the age of ten she begged him to put her someplace else. He took her out of school and sent her here, on the condition that she continued her studies on her own. She did, and was much happier for it. Jeane loved to work by herself.

"Yes, until now." Reaver sniffed. "I am no longer concerned with ruining the integrity of your hideaway because you'll not be coming back here for a very long while. It's time for you to move."

Her smile evaporated. "What?"

"Oh, little _piaf_, chin up!" Reaver gently pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. It was almost tender but for the slightly mocking tone in his voice. "You'll be staying with me at my manor in Millfields. It's quite large and spacious, I'm sure you'll find all sorts of little havens to recite sonnets in."

"But why? Why do I have to go now? So suddenly?" Already Jeane's eyes began to water and she felt like a foolish baby. She could not cry about this. Reaver would probably be furious.

"I'm afraid it was not meant to be such short notice. I had sent a letter weeks ago, but it had apparently never arrived. The landlady was very surprised to see me. But no worries, she's having the girls pack your things as we speak. We can be on the ship tonight and arriving in Bowerstone's harbor by tomorrow afternoon."

Jeane frowned down at the ground, unsure of what to say. Reaver would not respond well to any whining or begging. Too many questions would irritate him. It was clear he fully expected her to simply accept this. She was allowed to be nothing but obedient in his presence. He never minded when she defied the authority of others, but his say was always final. It was unfair. "Very well." She muttered.

"That's my girl. Now, why don't you take a moment to say goodbye to your cemetery, and then we can be off."

She blinked hard in surprise. A cemetery. Of course! That's what those statues in the bushes must've been—gravestones. That would explain its seclusion and its high walls; such things were very common in a world where the dead occasionally had a tendency of returning. Jeane shivered. How creepy. "It's okay. We can go now."

As the two walked their way through the ancient winding path, Jeane glanced back to get one last glimpse of her secret garden. Things were going to be very different now. Nervousness filled her heart.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

First of all, the poem that Jeane read is William Shakespeare's Sonnet 43. That's right, in my version of the fableverse, William Shakespeare is a thing that exists. Or at least his writings do. I seem to remember that there was a parody version of William Shakespeare that popped up in a quest in Fable 3, though. For half a second I was planning on writing my own fancy old-timey sounding sonnet for her to read but then I was though... nahhh screw that just use that famous guy's stuff. It's all open source or whatever at this point anyways. I am no good at writing all fancy-like.

Anyways, this first chapter's not so great, I know. A whole lot of backstory, not a lot of plot. I'm also really out of practice, I haven't written anything but essays for the last year. Honestly I don't exactly know where I'm going with this, I just knew that I really write about Reaver. I've been feeling really inspired by the various things recently. For this chapter, I was thinking a lot about naturalism (if you couldn't tell by all the gardens and nature and shit) and art from the Rococo period, oddly enough. It hasn't actually come up in the story yet, but for some reason I'm really into all the frilliness and silliness of that time in France and I'm really hoping to use it in the story soon. But it might have to wait until Reaver and Jeane get to Millfields.

Now, I'm not actually going to guarantee this story will be continued. I don't really have an excuse, I'm just really bad at staying committed to one project. Short attention span, I guess. But I hope you've enjoyed what I have so far and I hope it's not complete crap because I kind of wrote it at 4 in the morning and even though it appears to be acceptable I actually don't know anything and I don't wanna do that whole peer review mess. I am a lone wolf. I work alone. I don't need _no_body. I am the night.


End file.
